Forlorn Figures
by Meadonroe
Summary: The story follows the pitiful life of Jaime Smit. A 22-year old, unemployed and above all, bitter young man. He had given up on life, only to find it being sparked back to life by a wild Spaniard. But will he be ready to allow a positive vibe to penetrate his mental walls?
1. Introduction to the main puppet

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any character related to Tekken, they are property of Namco respectively. - _unfortunately though_. The other characters are OC's, and I therefore own them. **Author's notes**: I based the main character Jaime roughly on myself, ofcourse with implemented exaggeration to spice up the story. I have no idea how long I'll make this fic, since it started off as a quick drabble to numb boredom. Furthermore there will be some topics mentioned that might be considered 'racist', please realize I'm in no way racist, it is part of the story. If this offends you in any way, I'd advize you to read another fic that you will be comfortable with.  
**Rating**: This fic is rated T for the 'discrimination' issue previously mentioned, alcohol (ab)use, mentioning of drug use, (_addiction in genera_l), depression, constant swearing (trust me, there will be a lot of that), violence, and romantic relationships between some of the characters.  
**Genre**: I could say that it could classify as a yaoi fiction, yet I do not intend to include strong sexual content. There will be romance and love-making, but nothing too explicit.  
**Main pairing**: Miguel x Jaime. With some side-pairings with other Tekken - related characters.  
**Extra notes**: English is not my first language, so I'm sure I will make typo's, spelling errors, and probably the sentence structure will sometimes seem a little .. odd. But I will do my very best. Also, if you guy want me to write about a certain topic or want me to include a certain pairing, please do let me know and I'll consider it for the following chapters.

**This is a raw version of the first chapter. I you'd like to read a more serious version, skip to version 2. (c**hapter 2) 

Now, without further ado, let's get on with the actual story. I hope you guys will enjoy. Please, read and review, I'd really like to know what you think and what I might need to improve on.

* * *

_What is love? A question I've asked myself numerous times. It remained out of my reach. It seemed that everytime I'd meet someone who gave me the idea that we might've had something in common, I ended up hurt. History would repeat itself, as I would simply get rejected, or my weakness got the best of me and forced me to walk through a sea of fire, - sort of speech - and to top it of, I never found a single person to return the favor. Then again, I've never been the social type - not because I couldn't care less about humanity - but due to my severe case of insecurity. Making friends never came as an easy task, and the ones that I did manage to make, ended up either stabbing me in the back the first chance they got, or taking advantage of my gullible nature. I was pointed to myself, but I soon realized I couldn't even rely on myself. I'd been hurt so many times, - I even lost count - that I eventually just stopped trying all together. I kept telling myself that I'd rather be alone, than to make to make the same damn mistakes over, and over again. Sure it was a lonely existence, and it was only accounted for, for me to slip into a deep depression shortly after. I made efforts to stay as far away from any form of pain as possible, but avoiding humans in general hurt just as bad. I was left clueless. Nothing seemed to work in my favor, no matter what I did, I would end up alone and hurt. I became a heap of trash, a collection of negative experiences, to such an extend, that even the slighest annoyance would tick me off and made me go all Godzilla over the place. I became sensitive to certain noises, and I had my neighbors to thank for that._

_But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me at least introduce myself before I start rampaging about shit you probably don't give two fucks about. My name is Jaime Smit, 22 years old, unemployed and currently living in my own personal hell. Oh, and I should presumably inform you that I'm bitter as fuck... Yeah, that should be about as accurate as it can get. Now, let me tell you a bit more about the hell hole I live in. It's basically a discount ghetto. All foreigners without the slighest bit of respect for their fellow man. Don't get me wrong, I've got no problems with foreigners, I just have major problems with the ones living next to me. I live in a cheap apartment, owned by Mr. Petersson, a land lord who'd sell just about anyone an apartment, if only the right amount of money was shown. Result : an entire building inhabited by street trash, young punks - who discard close to every rule I can think of by the heart, and see the hallways as their canvas to show off their 'amazing' grafitti skills - , a couple of drugdealers, old people on the verge of death, single fathers trying to prove their exes they were capable of living without them, families with low incomes that got a 'friendly' visit from a bailiff pretty much every month, and those families where you never see either the man or wife leave for work, but still managed to survive, - and in the back of your mind you just know the father is doing illegal stuff to feed his kids. Those brat kids that cause such amounts of noise during the day, that you'd seriously consider ringing their door bell and stabbing 'em all in the face. Oh, and ofcourse there is also the fair share of depressed nobodies, like myself. This is a recipe for disaster if you ask me, and several fights and police reports prove my point. God, you gotta love it..._

_I normally wouldn't set foot outside of my apartment, aside from buying microwave meals, and tabacco and filters, to support my nicotine intake with... Or .. maybe also to collect my mail, I suppose. Yet I heard the hoarse voice of Mr. Petersson - a tiny, middle-aged man with one hell of a belly - as he emerged from the hall way on the third floor (the one I lived on). At first I thought he was making small talk with Brenda - the blonde from the last room on the floor - she was a friendly woman, pressumingly in her 30's, nice to talk to, as I tollerate her pressence near me on the few occasions we smoked a cigarette together on the roof. A nice lady indeed, but a complete alcoholic. She had sunk so far into her addiction, that her head got permanently fogged up. The things that woman would blurt out, scared me from time to time, but what can ya' do about it? At least a person wanted to talk to me, even if I most likely wouldn't want to be near her if it wasn't for the fact that she knew when to shut up. As I opened my front door, I saw two faces turn to the sudden sound of the chain on the door's lock being unlocked. Mr. Petersson's face lit up in surprise to see me in the bewildered state I was in - since I was awakened by the sound of four little feet running around in the apartment next to mine - Those goddamn kids.. My eyes spit pure venom, and I knew the old man was still eagerly awaiting the day I would spit fire. Meh, I couldn't blame him, the man had never witnessed a smile on my face, and only heard me bark loads of insults at him regarding my neighbors. It was almost as if the old fart feared me. Like I care.._

_He cleared his throat, in an attempt to find the right words to greet me. I didn't care, his words will enter one ear, and exit the other. But the fact t__h_at those fucking monsters woke me up - again - was something I was not willing to let slide. I approached him, pointing my index finger at his sweaty frame.

"You! Listen to me, and listen to me good! This has been going on for four years now and despite the amount of complaints, I have yet to see you step up and do a goddamn thing about it!"

The man swallowed, straighting the folds in his shirt. _There wasn't a chance he would brush me off this time._

"Mr. Smit, I assure you that I take your complaints to heart, but there isn't much I can do about the situation. These are children we're talking about .. and they tend to be noisy,"

_Hah. Like I haven't heard that one before. It was the same lame-ass excuse as ever. A fucking waste of oxygen. I was about to make a remark, but forgot whatever clever line I came up with, when a tall figure emerged from the emergency staircase. I smirked at the sight. I've lived here ever since my mother kicked me out of the house at the age of sixteen yeard old, and for as long as I've lived here, the elevator had been out of order. Guess the old man didn't see the need for fixing it as a necessity. I mean, what is that 'safety hazard' of which you speak?_

_The person dragged a black bag along with him, wiping off some sweat that had formed on his brow, and straightened his back. Damn, that guy was tall, - and I say that about nearly everyone - since I'm only 155cm tall, which is rather short for a 22 year old guy - So pretty much most of mankind was taller than me - but this guy must've been 2m at least .. if not taller. I hate tall people. Standing so strong, towering over people, casting their shadow over anything and anyone shorter. I know it makes no sense.. get off my back already!_

_He looked in the direction where Mr. Petersson and I were standing, and placed a hand on his hip_. "Am I interrupting something?"

_I cursed under my breath. This guy's accent was as thick as jizz on a mondaymorning. Another foreign guy. I wondered how it was possible for me to still be speaking English, when in all those years, I could've easily picked up at least 5 languages. I looked at the guy and it now struck me that __he_ was probably carrying that bag for a reason. I was about to open my mouth, when Mr. Petersson walked up to the stranger and happily shook his hand.

"Ah! Mr. Caballero, welcome! Excuse me for the interruption, I was discussing a small matter with one of my residents,"

_I squeezed my eyes to little slits. A small matter? I should've ripped his nuts off as we speak. Insensitive prick.  
The new face shot me a glance, accompanied by a smirk adorning his lips._

"I assume everthing's sorted out? Then again, judging by the look on that kid's face, you must have serious issues with his parents,"

_Damn him to hell! The nerve on that guy! He doesn't even live here yet, and yet he already sees himself as the king of the manor. Fucking fucker!_

_My land lord breathed a nervous chuckle._ "Mr. Caballero, this is Mr. Smit. He won't be much of a bother to you, I am sure. Now .. "

Mr. Petersson handed the giant a set of keys.

"These are the keys to your apartment. I'll let you get settled in, in private. If you have any complaints, please don't hesitate to contact me,"

_Haha! What a joke. Upon realizing that the oldtimer had left me and the stranger alone, I got a little grumpy. Even more than I already was. I don't like strangers and I certainly don't like helping them. Turning around to retreat into my lair, I heard the guy speak._

"Hey kid, no hard feelings, right?"

_I rolled my eyes back, pushing my door back into its lock, wanting nothing more than to get back to sleep. Still I heard his voice yell a final word, before I his door fall shut. I knew all to well what he said ..._


	2. Introduction to the main puppet (ver 2)

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any character related to Tekken, they are property of Namco respectively. - _unfortunately though_. The other characters are OC's, and I therefore own them. **Author's notes**: I based the main character Jaime roughly on myself, ofcourse with implemented exaggeration to spice up the story. I have no idea how long I'll make this fic, since it started off as a quick drabble to numb boredom. Furthermore there will be some topics mentioned that might be considered 'racist', please realize I'm in no way racist, it is part of the story. If this offends you in any way, I'd advize you to read another fic that you will be comfortable with.  
**Rating**: This fic is rated T for the 'discrimination' issue previously mentioned, alcohol (ab)use, mentioning of drug use, (_addiction in genera_l), depression, constant swearing (trust me, there will be a lot of that), violence, and romantic relationships between some of the characters.  
**Genre**: I could say that it could classify as a yaoi fiction, yet I do not intend to include strong sexual content. There will be romance and love-making, but nothing too explicit.  
**Main pairing**: Miguel x Jaime. With some side-pairings with other Tekken - related characters.  
**Extra notes**: English is not my first language, so I'm sure I will make typo's, spelling errors, and probably the sentence structure will sometimes seem a little .. odd. But I will do my very best. Also, if you guys want me to write about a certain topic or want me to include a certain pairing, please do let me know and I'll consider it for the following chapters.

_Now, wituout further ado, let's get on with the actual story. I hope you guys will enjoy. Please, read and review, I'd really like to know what you think and what I might need to improve on._

**If you are wondering why I uploaded the first chapter twice, it's not like that. This is a re-written version of the original. In this version, Jaime isn't as 'bitter' and doesn't swear as much. I wanted to know whether you prefer Jaime as an asshole (like in the original) or more like he is in this chapter.**

* * *

My name is Jaime Smit. Not that you probably care. And I don't blame you at all, I wouldn't be the least impressed if I were to meet myself. I am what you could refer to as a shadow of a young man who once enjoyed life. A young man who would later on discover that life is one big ordeal.. An ordeal at which I failed, and was still able to taste the bitter aftertaste from in the present. I am one of those people you often see walking the streets in sollitude. The kind of people that wish to seclude themselves from the world, and hope their suffering will soon meet its end. On the occasions I'd go to town, people would follow me with their eyes. The inhabitants of the city I had lived in since birth, knew me all too well. They had seen me grow up, change .. turn into the mess I have to show for now. They would smile in an almost apologetic manner when they saw me walk past them. I wanted believe that they cared for my well-being, but deep down it was mere obvious it had nothing to do with compassion, this was mere pitty. They pitied me. I wasn't sure to feel insulted, dishonored or be thankful for the little amount of consideration. The townspeople had good intentions, and this was their way of supporting - even if I wanted to deny rather than acknowledge it.

I live in a small apartment in the outskirts of town. I was practically forced to get a job - since I had no income - when my mother had kicked me out of the house at 16 years old. After the sudden death of my sister, and shortly there after the passing of my stephfather due to cancer, my mother underwent an internal change. She became bitter, fell ill and lost her jobs due to budget shortcuts. The financial issue came between us. Both my mother and me knew she was no longer capable to maintain me. It was the first time I had experienced such a severe depression. And for years in a row I'd locked myself in my room. Slowly but surely I lost all contact with the outside world. I I never had any actual friends, and to be honest, I could've really used a friend back then. Because I had no friends, I felt like I had no obligations to society. My mother and I underwent the daily hassle of having constant arguments. Shad often threatened to kick me out of the house, but it never happened, so I thought nothing of it. Until at one point my mother took legal steps and had me thrown out. Luckily not so long after that, a lot of conversations with instancies willling to reach out a helping hand took place, - and also a lot of paperwork - I got an apartment assigned to me. Ofcourse I was furious with my mother. I loathed the woman and promised myself to never forgive her for abandoning me when I needed her the most. Don't get me wrong, I love my mother, and I understand her motives, but I felt betrayed. As if she chose the easy way out, above having a genteel conversation with her son. I lived on my own now, literally. And the situation didn't do my depression any virtue. And in spite of the hassles, I found peace in the knowledge that she was close/near me. Even though I had spent a big part of my life in my room when I still lived with her, I knew she was in the same house, and I needed that reassurance that I wasn't really alone.

I worked several jobs in order to get the bills paid, but I managed to get my life back on tracks, yet this realisation brought me no satisfaction. I was still alone in this world, had no one to share all of this with. My abyss only grew in size. Every night I returned to an empty apartment.

* * *

Again I awoke to the sound of children yelling. Most likely the neighbors. This had been the case for 4 years now, yet my land lord, Mr. Petersson - a middle aged man with a strange fascination with hawaiian shirts - never hid the fact that he had little to no interest for my complaints. And so, each morning, at exactly 10 am, those kids woke up and would run through the aparment like a bunch of mad bulls. And the fact that the walls were paper thin, only weighed down on me even more. I was 4 years into it, I was gradually losing my patience. I opened the door to the corridor, with the intention to get my mail, when I heard the raw voice of Mr. Petersson. My first thought was that he was making small talk with Brenda - the blonde who lived at the end of the corrider. She was a nice lady, pressumingly in her 30's, pleasant to chat with, but unfortunately a complete alcoholic. She had sunk so far into her addiction, that her head got permanently fogged up. The things that woman would blurt out, scared me from time to time. But I appreciated that she attempted to drag me out of my isolation.

As I locked my door behind me, the sound of the metal chain hitting the doorframe, caught the attention of some residents, who were about to leave for work, and ofcourse.. Mr. Petersson. The man's eyes lit up, as he cleared his throat, searching for the right words to greet me with. I knew the man couldn't stand it, and it was the least of my concerns.

"Mr. Smit. Goodmorning. How are you?"

"I was doing fine 'til I was woken up by my damn neighbors again. This has been going on for 4 years now and despite the amount of complaints, I have yet to see you step up and do a goddamn thing about it,"

"Mr. Smit, I assure you that I take your complaints to heart, but there isn't much I can do about the situation. These are children we're talking about .. and they tend to be noisy,"

Again this lame-ass exuse. I'm gettin sick of this man's laid back attitude. I was about to make a remark, but forgot whatever clever line I came up with, when a tall figure emerged from the emergency staircase. I smirked at the sight, for as long as I've lived here, the elevator had been out of order. Guess the old man didn't see the need for fixing it as a necessity. I mean, what is that 'safety hazard' of which you speak? The faded blue color of the door got a whole lot more vibrant compared to the pale-collored clothing the person was wearing. A face covered with dark brown curls, dark eyes, this man wasn't American. Interesting. He dragged a black Addidas bag behind him, his towering 2m tall frame wiping off some of the sweat beads that formed on his brow - probably related to the stairs. I mean, he did climb 3 floors. Taking a better look at his height, I felt even shorter than I was, and I was short. I meassured a frail 155cm.

He looked in the direction where Mr. Petersson and I were standing, and placed a hand on his hip. "Am I interrupting something?"

I looked at the guy and it now struck me that was probably carrying that bag for a reason. I was about to open my mouth, when Mr. Petersson walked up to the stranger and happily shook his hand.

"Ah! Mr. Caballero, welcome! Excuse me for the interruption, I was discussing a small matter with one of my residents,"

I squeezed my eyes to little slits. A small matter? I should've ripped his nuts off as we speak. Insensitive prick.

The new face shot me a glance, accompanied by a smirk adorning his lips.

"I assume everthing's sorted out? Then again, judging by the look on that kid's face, you must have serious issues with his parents,"

Kid? Did he just really referred to me as ' kid ' ? Okay .. I think I might not get allong with this guy, pointing out the obvious and all ..

My land lord breathed a nervous chuckle. "Mr. Caballero, this is Mr. Smit. He won't be much of a bother to you, I am sure. Now .. "

Mr. Petersson handed the giant a set of keys.

"These are the keys to your apartment. I'll let you get settled in, in private. If you have any complaints, don't hesitate to contact me,"

Haha! What a joke. I then realised that the oldtimer had left me alone with a stranger, I got a little grumpy. Even more than I already was. I don't like strangers and I certainly don't like helping them. Turning around to retreat into my lair, I heard the guy speak.

"Hey kid, no hard feelings, right?"

I rolled my eyes back, pushing my door back into its lock, wanting nothing more than to get back to sleep. Still I heard his voice yell a final word, before I his door fall shut. I knew all to well what he said ...


End file.
